


King and Lionheart

by OomnyDevotchka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OomnyDevotchka/pseuds/OomnyDevotchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is the prince of Camelot, and Stiles is his long-suffering, secretly magical manservant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King and Lionheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maderr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maderr/gifts).



> Though this is a fusion with BBC Merlin, it contains only Teen Wolf Characters, so no knowledge of that series is required.
> 
> Written for the Sterek Campaign Teen Wolf Charity Project. Thanks to [Michelle](http://diva0789.tumblr.com/) for the beta!

            Stiles slouched through Deaton’s workroom to get to his bed, and collapsed face-first on top of it.

            “Hard day?” Deaton asked, sounding detached but sympathetic.

            Stiles groaned into his pillow. “Awful day,” he told it. “Prince _Asshole_ insisted I help him with ‘training the knights’. I have bruises in places I didn’t even know I _had_ places.”

            It was a good thing that Stiles didn’t lift his head from his pillow, because Deaton had to stifle a smile at his petulant tone. “Aren’t you glad you helped, at least?” he asked, focusing his attention back on the beetles that he was grinding into a fine paste.

            Stiles whipped his head around to shoot Deaton an incredulous look. “I fail to see how using me as a punching bag helps to teach the knights anything,” he said. “He just does it because he enjoys my pain.”

            “I’m sure that’s not true,” Deaton said.

            “You’ve seen how he treats me,” said Stiles morosely, rolling over onto his back so he could stare at the ceiling. “Hell, I think the only way he could possibly hate me _more_ is if he found out about my magic.”

            Deaton caught Stiles’s eye, and then gestured to the door of his chamber, which Stiles had left open.

            Stiles winced. “Oops?” he tried.

            Deaton just rolled his eyes, far too used to Stiles’s carelessness to get upset. Sometimes, he thought that everyone else in the castle, especially Prince Derek, must be complete idiots to not realize that Stiles had magic. Deaton couldn’t even count the number of times in the year since Stiles had come to live in the castle that he’d almost revealed his secret.

            It was the worst thing imaginable in Camelot, to be revealed as a sorcerer. Ever since the fire, years ago, that had killed the beloved King and Queen and left the current King, Peter, bitter and deformed, being convicted of sorcery meant a swift and cruel death. The fire had been caused by a sorceress, a cruel woman who allowed her hatred of the monarchy to twist her into something evil. Because of that, and because, as everyone whispered behind his back, the fire had robbed him of his sanity, Peter had outlawed magic completely.

            Camelot, a kingdom in which every type of magic, from the healing charms cast by the simplest hedge witches to the destructive forces of the battle mages, had thrived for centuries, was suddenly bereft of it. People who had once made their living as mages (including Deaton himself) were forced to renounce their past and swear an oath that they would never do magic again. Those who refused, or even hesitated, met a sticky end.

            It was a difficult new life, but one that Deaton had adapted to. For six long years, he had practiced medicine without magic, biting his tongue when he let a person die instead of saving them with magic. Then, Stiles had shown up, and everything in Deaton’s life had changed.

            Stiles, with his country-boy demeanor and disregard for authority. Stiles, with his quick wit and quicker tongue. Stiles, who had revealed his magic to Deaton within five minutes of meeting him.

            Stiles, who was the most powerful sorcerer the world had ever seen, as well as Prince Derek’s manservant.

            It was a volatile situation, one that caused Deaton to worry every day. Stiles was brave and self-sacrificing to a fault and, despite his tendency to complain loudly to everyone who’d listen about how horribly Derek treated him, he was fiercely loyal to him. This had led to several occasions where Stiles had risked exposing himself in order to save Derek’s life.

            Deaton was snapped out of his contemplation by Stiles crossing the room in a single bound and slamming the door shut. He turned back to Deaton and opened his mouth, presumably to continue complaining, but Deaton interrupted him before he could get going. “Since you don’t seem particularly tired any more, how about you go and pick some herbs for me?” Deaton’s voice was gentle, even casual, but left no room for argument.

            Stiles’s mouth dropped open. “But _Deaton -_ ” he began.

            Deaton handed him a list and a basket and pushed him bodily out the door, smirking to himself as Stiles’s complaints faded away.

***

            The next morning, Stiles overslept.

            It wasn’t as though this was an uncommon occurrence, because Stiles loved his sleep, but one of his duties was to bring Derek breakfast before training, and Derek tended to get bitchy when Stiles was late.

            Throwing on a random tunic and breeches, Stiles ran out the door, only realizing once he got into the corridor that he had forgotten to put on shoes. Cursing, he ran back into his room and tugged them on, trying to ignore Deaton’s judgmental eyebrow. After the fifth time Stiles had responded to Deaton’s attempts to wake him up by blasting him across the room, Deaton had refused to wake Stiles up any more, which meant that Stiles could no longer expect any sympathy from him.

            Stiles ran pell-mell towards the kitchens, dodging the various courtiers and servants and not bothering to apologize when he ran into them. When his goal was within sight, he sped up, lungs burning, needing to get there as quickly as possible.

            Of course, with Stiles’s luck, that was the exact moment that he plowed directly into what looked like a walking pile of laundry and bounced off, landing flat on his ass.

            The force of the collision had knocked the other person over as well, and when Stiles looked up, winded, he saw a disheveled-looking Allison, linens spread out around her on the floor.

            “Shit,” Stiles cried, jumping to his feet and hurrying to pick up the clean laundry. “I’m so sorry, Allison, I was running late and wasn’t looking where I was going, and oh my God Derek’s going to kill me.” He helped Allison to her feet and then shoved the now-wrinkled linens into her arms, feeling terrible about the fact that she would likely have to re-wash them.

            Allison, though, just gave him a wry, dimpled smile. “Don’t worry about it, Stiles,” she said. “This floor was just washed this morning. If I re-fold them, Lydia won’t mind.”

            Stiles huffed out a relieved breath, wondering how people as nice as Allison even existed. “I really am sorry,” he said, walking backwards away from her. “We should talk later, yeah?”

            Allison nodded. “If you’re still alive, that is,” she said, teasing gleam in her eye.

            Stiles huffed and turned around entirely, resuming his run towards the kitchens. “Don’t remind me,” he called over his shoulder, and the tinkling sound of Allison’s laughter followed him all the way through the doors.

            Inside the kitchens, he ran into the cook, Melissa, who pointed him to where Derek’s still-hot food was waiting with a roll of her eyes. Stiles chanced a kiss to the older woman’s cheek as he dashed off, and was met with a half-hearted swipe.

            Trotting his way up the many, many stairs that lead to Derek’s rooms, Stiles considered using a bit of magic, just to get him there a little quicker. Stiles was out of practice, though (an inevitability, in a kingdom that outlawed magic), and he was unlikely to get it right the first time, at least without people noticing.  

            Finally, Stiles got to the top of the stairs and threw open the door to Derek’s room. Part of him was hoping that Derek would still be asleep, so that his tardiness could pass undetected, but the larger part knew that it was too much to hope for – and even if Derek _was_ still asleep, he would just yell at Stiles for being too late to wake him.

            Sure enough, Derek was awake, sitting on his bed and scowling heavily in Stiles’s general direction.

            Stiles gave an internal groan, but smiled brightly. “Good morning,” he said. “Hungry? Melissa’s really outdone herself with the food today, it looks excellent -”

            “Stiles.” Derek growled.

            Stiles broke off immediately, and waited a moment for Derek to elaborate. When he didn’t, Stiles sighed and asked “Yes, O Grouchy One?”

            Derek’s scowl deepened. “You can’t speak to me like that.”

            “Right, sorry,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, _Your Highness_?” He infuses as much sarcasm into the words as humanly possible.

            “You are the worst manservant ever,” Derek replied, standing up and making his way over to the table where Stiles had set his food. “Fetch my armor, would you? I’m going to be late to knights’ practice, thanks to you.”

            Stiles tried to resist rolling his eyes too obviously, but did as he was told and fetched Derek’s chainmail from its cupboard. He was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room as Derek finished his meal. From the not-so-sly little smirks Derek kept sending him, Stiles was convinced that Derek was eating more slowly than usual, just to fuck with him.

            Stiles began tapping his foot very obviously.

            Nothing from Derek, except a particularly loud sip of his milk.

            Stiles shifted the heavy armor from one arm to the other and sighed, loudly and pointedly.

            Derek broke off a piece of bread and began to butter it.

            “What happened to ‘I’m going to be late for knight’s practice, Stiles’?” Stiles finally asked. He was unreasonably proud of his impression of Derek’s voice.

            Derek took his intense focus off his bread. “Well, I am the prince,” he said. “I decide when knight’s practice is.”

            Stiles scowled at him, shifting the armor again. “I hate you,” he mumbled.

            Chuckling, Derek abandoned his food and stood up to walk to the middle of the room. “Alright, that’s enough of your nagging,” he said. “Dress me.”

            And, shit. Stiles had been doing this every day for over a year, but every time he helped Derek into his clothes and armor, every time he had to get up close and personal with those piercing eyes and glistening pecs, he felt like it was the very first time he had done it.

            Tamping down his feelings securely – Derek would _never_ let him live it down if he realized just how attracted to him Stiles was – he stepped closer to Derek and helped him drag his sleep shirt over his head, leaving him standing in only his breeches.

            Moving over to Derek’s wardrobe, Stiles chose one of the soft shirts that Derek favored wearing under his chain mail and tugged it over Derek’s head, relieved when it covered up Derek’s torso.

            Next came the chain mail shirt, slipped over Derek’s tunic, and cinched around his waist with a belt.

            Derek always raised his arms obediently for Stiles to dress him, because he’s been helped to dress since he was a child. Stiles couldn’t even imagine that sort of life, and he especially couldn’t fathom how much trust Derek offered him every single morning. Stiles was always covering himself up, with clothes and sarcasm alike, and the idea of letting someone else see him at his most vulnerable made him want to run and hide.

            He thought he could do it for Derek, though.

            He strapped on Derek’s gauntlets, then, left arm first, then right. Sometimes, Derek trained the knights in full on plate armor, but it wasn’t his usual strategy. The plate armor was really only used when the knights are riding into battle, and Camelot’s prosperity over the last twenty or so years ensured that the neighboring kingdoms were hesitant to go to war. No, Derek’s knights were usually used to fight small bands of raider, or else the occasional magical creature. In those sorts of fights, the plate armor’s tendency to restrict movement far outweighed any of the defensive advantages it gave the knights.

            It had taken about six months for Stiles to understand this, and also to actually learn how to put the fucking plate armor on.

            The last piece Stiles slipped on was the single pauldron, over the shoulder of his sword arm. Job finished, Stiles stepped back and offered Derek his helmet.

            Derek took it, gave a stiff little nod, and swept out of the room.

***

            Technically, Stiles was supposed to be using his time to clean Derek’s chambers. However, he had always been of the opinion that if he didn’t have to work hard at something, he shouldn’t work hard at it. So instead, he’d used his magic to give the room a quick cleaning, and was now situated at the very edge of the knights’ practice field, attempting to sneakily watch Derek without making it too obvious what he was doing.

            Derek was attempting to train several new knights, which always ended sort of badly for everyone, because Derek was a sadistic bastard who didn’t seem to understand that not everyone had grown up with a sword in their hand, and with instructors constantly trying to teach them how to use it.

            In order to cut down on the number of knights who Derek sent from the castle, humiliated and crying, Derek’s best knight, Scott, had suggested that Derek teach by sparring with him, rather than the new knights. Since then, both Derek and the recruits had been infinitely easier to deal with, and Stiles had been so grateful to Scott that he’d refused to stop hugging him for a solid ten minutes.

            Out on the field, Derek and Scott went at each other again and again, swords and armor flashing in the sunlight, in that intricate dance that Stiles had never been able to understand. Every now and again, Derek would stop the bout to point out something that he or Scott had done, and then they’d repeat the same movement, over and over, while the rest of the knights, divided into their own sparring pairs, copied them.

            Stiles didn’t know what it was about watching knight’s practice that made him so calm. Maybe it was the reassurance factor, being able to see with his own eyes just how good the defenders of Camelot were at their craft. Maybe it was the way Derek himself moved, so calm and in control, reminding Stiles that he could, actually, take care of himself.

            That it wasn’t always Stiles’s job to protect him, however much it might feel that way.

            It may have also had something to do with how hot Derek looked when he got going, but Stiles wasn’t about to admit that to anyone.

            “Enjoying yourself, Stiles?” A female voice comes from behind him, making him break out of his reverie with a little yelp. He whirls around and comes face to face with Allison, who’s smiling brightly at him, and Lydia, who is wearing her familiar air of disaffected majesty.

            Before Stiles could respond to Allison’s question, Lydia butted in. “Staring at Derek again, I see,” she said, with an arch of one perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

            Lydia was, to say the least, intimidating. Beautiful, intelligent, shrewd, and high in the King’s favor, she was never averse to saying exactly what it was she was thinking. Fortunately, if she liked someone, she was also a loyal friend.

            Stiles, who counted himself as one of Lydia’s friends, saw fit to respond to her teasing with a jab of his own. “I’m guessing you came down here to stare at Sir Jackson, Lydia.”

            Lydia tossed a red-gold lock of hair over her shoulder. “At least I’m actually sleeping with Sir Jackson,” she said primly. “This pining from a distance thing you’ve got going on is pathetic.”

            Allison snickered lightly at Lydia’s frankness. “Yeah, Stiles,” she said, dimples out in full force. “You really should make a move.”

            Stiles sighs and sits down on the fence that keeps the public back from the knights’ training ring. “How did I manage to get lumped in with the girls?” he said, mostly to himself.

            Lydia gave him a smack. “You should be grateful to be ‘lumped in’ with us. We’re fabulous!”

            Stiles was about to respond with a smart comment, but became aware that a hush was falling over the area. The clang of the knights’ swords had stopped completely, and the bustle of the people coming and going through the palace gates, though not silenced, was subdued.

            There was only one person Stiles was aware of who could command instant silence with his presence.

            Sure enough, he looked around to see King Peter striding over the ground leading from the castle, making his way toward Derek and his knights. Lydia, who had been huddled with Stiles and Allison, took a large step back, distancing herself from the servants. Stiles felt a twinge of hurt at that, and could see a similar feeling in the way Allison bit her lip and dropped her eyes, but he understood why she needed to do it.  

            Peter was…weird about Lydia, and, from what Stiles had heard, he always had been. Even before the fire, when he’d been only the brother of the king and relatively sane, he’d taken an acute interest in her. Stiles was sure that at some point, the interest was merely fatherly – concern for a girl who’d lost both her parents at such a young age. Now, however, the interest came across as decidedly creepy.

            In any case, one of the things Peter was weird about was Lydia being too close to her servants. Sure, he probably wouldn’t get angry if he was to see her speaking familiarly with Stiles and Allison, but it would definitely raise his suspicion, and Lydia’s relationship with Jackson meant that she couldn’t afford to have Peter looking at her too closely.

            Luckily, it seemed that Peter wasn’t interested in Lydia today. He walked purposefully towards the knights, not sparing a glance to the crowd of people that parted to allow him through. When he was within speaking distance of the practice field, he paused. “Derek. I need to speak with you.” His tone allowed no arguments.

            Derek gave a respectful incline of the head, and he began to walk off the field after Peter, who had not stopped to see Derek’s reaction to his words. Knowing how awkward it was for Derek to meet with Peter in full armor, Stiles dashed forward, intending to relieve Derek of his sword, at least.

            Derek rolled his eyes as Stiles ran up to him, but handed over his sword anyway. “Aren’t you supposed to be working, not lazing around watching knight’s practice?”  

            “It’s a good thing I was here,” Stiles replied, beginning to stagger a little as Derek added his gauntlets and helmet to his load. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have your favorite pack mule.”

            Derek snorted. “You’d be a better pack mule if you could actually _carry_ everything,” he said.

            “It’s metal!” Stiles cried. “Metal’s heavy!”

            By that time, they had reached the gates of the castle. The smirk that had been on Derek’s face melted off, replaced by the stoic expression he tended to adopt when he was afraid, but didn’t want to show it.

            Stiles understood why he was afraid. Knight’s practice was almost a sacred activity in Camelot, because the knights were so important to the city’s defense. Odd as he was, Peter would never have interrupted training without a good reason.

            Stiles shifted his load to one arm, wanting to reach out and reassure Derek, but thought better of it. Derek was a prince – he certainly didn’t need comfort from a servant.

            Instead, Stiles cleared his throat. “Try not to antagonize Peter too much, alright?” He said, dashing off as fast as he could while still weighed down with Derek’s armor.

            Derek watched him go, face unreadable.

***

            For the next hour and a half, Stiles was in a state of pure agitation. He had gone back to Derek’s rooms, so that he could be the first to hear what was going on when he got back, but, in the absence of any distractions, he had quickly began to construct increasingly horrible possible scenarios in his mind. After about ten minutes of this, he had resorted to practicing his magic, just to let off some steam.

            Stiles looked at Derek’s helmet, which he had set on the table. Concentrating deeply, he held out a hand and whispered “ _Onbregdan_ ,” under his breath.

            The helmet lifted from the table, and was in the process of moving towards Stiles (much more slowly than he would have liked. He couldn’t seem to get the hang of this spell), when he heard footsteps coming towards Derek’s door. In a panic, Stiles stepped back, allowing his concentration to drop, and the helmet fell heavily to the floor, just as Derek walked in the room.

            “Stiles, what the hell are you doing?” Derek asked, exasperated.

            Stiles didn’t answer for a moment, taking the time to study Derek’s facial expression, to see if he could figure out how his meeting with Peter had went. He looked tired, his face drawn and a little paler than usual, but the fact that he could open with teasing, and the fact that he was now standing in his doorway, an impassive eyebrow raised in Stiles’s direction, meant that he didn’t think the situation was dire.

            Relieved, Stiles had to think quickly in order to answer Derek’s earlier question, so he didn’t get to thinking about it and realize that the helmet was halfway across the room from Stiles when it fell. “I was…Polishing your armor?” he tried.

            “Taking out your frustrations on it, more like,” Derek said, finally vacating the doorframe. “If that helmet’s dented, you won’t be allowed to sleep until it’s fixed.”

            Ignoring the threat, Stiles decided not to tiptoe around the subject any longer. “What did the king want?” he asked.

            Derek’s shoulders drooped a little. “There’s trouble on the Eastern border, apparently,” he said. “He doesn’t want military action, though, so I’m going up there alone.”

            “ _Alone?_ ” Stiles yelped. “How much trouble are we talking about, here?”

            “Just bandit raids, and the like,” Derek replied. “I’m the best swordsman in the kingdom, I’ll be fine.”

            “I’m coming with you.” Stiles said.

            Derek snorted. “How’s that going to make me any safer?” he asked. “What are you going to do, annoy the bandits to death?”

            Stiles ignored him. “So we’re leaving tomorrow, at first light?”

            “ _We_ are not going anywhere. _I_ am leaving tomorrow morning, yes,” Derek scowls. “Don’t you have work to do, or something?”

            It was a clear dismissal, because any work Stiles should have been doing was pretty much in Derek’s room. He wasn’t really in the mood to argue, though, so he snapped his mouth shut and left.

            As he walked through the castle, he found himself fuming. True, Derek didn’t know what he could do with his magic, only knew how truly abysmal he was with a sword, but it still hurt when Derek underestimated Stiles.

            He would never do it, of course, but Stiles could kill Derek, Peter, anyone else in the castle without even lifting a finger. Hell, sometimes he thought it would be easier than bottling his magic up, going so long without using it that it hummed just below his skin.

            Stiles sighed and came to a stop, pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind. He couldn’t afford to get angry, or he might end up doing something impulsive, like showing Derek exactly what he’s capable of. And even though he’d never use his magic for evil, or to hurt anybody, a single look at Stiles’s gold-flashing eyes would surely cause Derek to order him executed.

            Shaking himself a little, Stiles looked up and realized with a jolt that his feet had carried him under the castle. The guards that were constantly posted in the corridor, without knowing quite why, were playing cards, as usual. It was a simple matter for Stiles to hide back in the corner and extinguish the torches with a wave of his hand, slipping past the guards in the resulting darkness.

            When he got far enough away from the guards that he wouldn’t be seen, he whispered “ _Forbærne!_ ” and the torch beside him lit up. He winced a little, because he hadn’t actually meant to put the torches out that far in the corridor, but he was still working on his control. Luckily, he seemed to have a much better grasp on the fire spell than the extinguishing spell, so he was reasonably certain that he hadn’t lit anything he shouldn’t have on fire.

            Removing the newly lit torch from its wall bracket, Stiles traveled down the dark corridor, winding around and around until he was so far underneath the castle that he couldn’t even hear the constant noise of servants and courtiers bustling about.

            After about ten minutes of walking, he came to a ledge, overlooking a cavernous chamber, which looked as though it had been carved out of the sides of the cave, rather than something that should be in a castle.

            Holding the torch up above his head to cast its weak light as far as possible Stiles shouted out as loud as he could. “Hey, Dragon! I could really use your special brand of non-advice, right about now.”

            He waited for a moment before he heard the tell-tale clinking of chains that meant the dragon had heard his summons.

            The thing swooped down to its customary perch on the large outcrop of rock in the middle of the chamber and folded its enormous wings to its body. Training one large, yellow eye on Stiles, it spoke. “Bilinski, what the hell are you doing here? Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?”

            Stiles had forgotten just how annoying the dragon was. Still, it was something he could vent to, and it had given him useful advice. Occasionally.

            “Shouldn’t you be happy to see me?” he asked. “It’s not like you have a whole lot of scintillating company down here.”

            The dragon huffed. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly consider you ‘scintillating’, there, Bilinski. Now whaddaya want?”

            “It’s just,” Stiles hesitated. “Derek’s supposed to go on this bandit adventure alone, and when I told him I’d go with him, he was all dismissive, y’know? It’s not like I’m completely worthless -”

            “Are you seriously coming to me with another ‘boo hoo, Derek doesn’t think I’m manly’ rant right now?” the dragon interrupted. “I swear to my mother’s trousers, Bilinski, you can’t go a day without getting all bent outta shape about this.”

            “I didn’t come down here to be mocked more,” Stiles said sullenly.

            “Oh, for the love of -” the dragon cut itself off, and them sighed as though Stiles was putting it through the greatest trial of his life. “Look, kid. You and Derek are still gonna do the uniting Albion thing, alright? Just, uh, keep your chin up, and get your head in the game, and, y’know, listen to your heart, or whatever.”

            With those parting words, the dragon took off, back to wherever it stayed when it wasn’t annoying Stiles.

            Stiles stood there with his mouth gaping open for a few seconds, before shouting “I don’t even know why I bother to _come_ here!” and stomping back into the passage from which he came.      

***

            The next morning, Stiles was positioned outside Derek’s door a full three hours earlier than usual. He knew Derek quite well, by this point, and knew that he wasn’t above sneaking off in order to prevent Stiles from coming with him.

            Stiles was prepared, though – he was wearing his most comfortable riding clothes, and had a small pack of his other things. Beside him on the floor was the plate with Derek’s breakfast (Melissa had _not_ been pleased when Stiles had woken her up to make it, but she tended to be indulgent of him), and another, larger pack, which contained all the food they’d need for the trip. One of the reasons that Stiles felt the need to accompany Derek on this trip, besides his own protectiveness, was the fact that he knew Derek would forget to bring important things, like food, with him. It was yet another consequence of Derek’s over privileged life – he was so used to other people providing for his basic needs that he forgot to provide for them himself. True, Derek was a very good hunter, and could certainly keep himself from starving in the woods, but Stiles was a firm believer in the principle of the balanced diet, and the idea of Derek living only on meat for God only knows how long made him shudder.

            Stiles stifled a yawn and shifted slightly on the stone floor to get more comfortable. He’d been sitting outside Derek’s door for so long, paranoid that Derek would sneak out, that his ass felt like it was frozen to the floor, and his feet, where they were tucked up under his crossed legs, were numb.

            Derek’s door creaked open, and Stiles immediately jumped up. He stumbled a little and almost fell, arms windmilling madly, because he’d forgotten that his feet were asleep.

            Derek, who had phenomenal reflexes, at least when he was fully awake, caught Stiles by the arm and hauled him back upright. “Stiles?” he asked, confused. “What the hell are you doing here?”

            Stiles, holding back a grimace and the pins and needles in his feet, replied “I told you, I’m going with you. I’ve brought your breakfast!” he indicated the tray on the floor, which he’d thankfully managed not to disturb with his flailing. His own pack, it seemed, hadn’t managed to avoid the same fate, and he was thankful that it only really contained clothes.

            Derek looked like he was about to rehash the fight from yesterday, but, after staring at Stiles intensely for a moment, he merely sighed and opened his door behind him. “Fine, bring it in.”

            Smiling to himself in victory, Stiles scrambled to get all his things in his arms, ending with the breakfast tray perched precariously in one hand while he carried the heavy food sack in the other. The third pack, his own, he held firmly to his chest with his chin, his mouth gaping open as though that would help him keep it there more securely.

            Derek cocked an eyebrow at Stiles’s display, but only said “If you end up being a nuisance, I’ll toss you in a lake and leave you there”, as he let Stiles through the door. 

***

            Three hours later, after a breakfast that largely consisted of Derek laying down his ‘conditions’ for Stiles coming with him (“If we actually get into a fight, you are to stay behind me at all times – Stiles, are you listening to me?”) while Stiles took advantage of Derek’s distraction to steal little bits of his breakfast, the two of them were finally on the road.

            Derek’s favorite stallion, Hengroen, pranced ahead of the placid mare that Stiles favored, his jet black tail swaying in front of Stiles’s exhausted eyes. “How far away is the border, again?” Stiles asked, trying to blink the sleep away.

            Derek looked around at him. “Isn’t that something you should know?”

            “Why _would_ I know that?” Stiles said “I’m a manservant, I don’t exactly have to be up to date on geography.”

            Derek huffed and turned back forward. “It’s about a three hour ride,” he replied.

            Stiles groaned, not looking forward to another three hours of this. Then, as he looked down at his saddle, he got an idea. Thinking back over the spells he’d learned from his book, he chose one and whispered it, after giving Derek’s back a cursory look to make sure he wasn’t paying attention.

            He didn’t feel anything from the spell, but when he tried to move his legs away from the saddle, he found that he couldn’t.

            He smiled to himself, then settled deeply back into his saddle and dozed off, letting his mare have her head to follow Hengroen while Stiles caught up on his lost sleep.

***

            Predictably enough, Stiles woke up three hours later to Derek’s grumpy face about six inches from his own. Also predictably enough, his reaction to this awakening was to yelp and flail backwards, though, luckily, his spell was still in place to keep him from falling off the horse completely.

            “You are actually the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met,” said Derek. When Stiles didn’t make any move to get off his horse and follow him, Derek asked “Are you planning on coming to help me, or not?”

            _Shit_. Stiles couldn’t undo his spell with Derek just standing there staring at him. Sure, Derek had proven almost impossibly oblivious when it came to Stiles using magic in front of him in the past, but on all those occasions, they had been in a confusing and stressful situation.

            “I was kinda just planning to have some bonding time with…uhhh,” Stiles patted his horse’s neck, trying desperately to remember her name.

            “Llamerai?”

            “…Lamerai, here!” Stiles jumped on Derek’s bemused answer. “Y’know, I feel like we just haven’t gotten the time to _connect_ yet.”

            Derek actually threw his hands up in exasperation, but turned around to walk back to where he has apparently been putting on his own armor.

            Desperately, Stiles whispered a few words to himself, straining his legs as hard as possible away from the saddle. When they didn’t budge, he swore, and then repeated the words again, adding a little bit of gravel to his voice and glaring at the saddle as though he could make it obey with the sheer power of his mind. He pulled his legs back again, and overbalanced and fell off Llamerai when they actually detached from the saddle.

            Derek popped his head out from behind Hengroen’s massive back. “Stiles!” he snapped. “Come help me, for God’s sake!”

            Stiles got back to his feet, brushing himself off, and offers Llamerai a pat on the nose for not getting upset when he had fallen off her. She whickered softly and lipped at his hand, and Stiles found himself wishing that he and Derek could just stay here with their horses, instead of fighting bandits.

            He tore himself away from the horse, though, and went over to Derek like a good manservant, taking over seamlessly from where he was struggling with his pauldron. “How, exactly, are we supposed to _find_ these bandits?” Stiles asked.

            An arrow flew past his head almost before he’d finished his sentence, answering his question for him.

            Derek pushes past Stiles, pulling his sword out of its sheath at the same time. Their situation looked bad – there were five bandits, each mounted on a horse, and each armed to the teeth. Derek quickly picked up his shield from the ground and shouted “Stiles! Get behind the tree!” as he raised his sword and shifted into a fighting stance.

            Stiles watched with a sinking heart. He knew that there was no way that Derek could beat all five of the bandits by himself in open combat, no matter how good a swordsman he was, and Stiles would hurt, rather than help, if he picked up a sword. He had no other choice but to use his magic, and it would have to be in a big way. Usually, he would just do little things – making enemies trip, for example, or detaching a tree limb above their head just as they were about to hurt one of his friends. They didn’t have time for that though, which became more obvious every second Stiles stalled.

            Derek had already managed to unhorse one of the bandits, but he was now locked in hand to hand combat with him, trying to deflect arrows with his shield and still bring it back around in time to block one of the enemy swordsman’s blows. It would only be a matter of moments before one of the bandits managed to get a lucky shot in, and Stiles could not allow that to happen.

            He could not allow Derek to die right in front of him, not when he could do something about it.

            Stiles threw himself out from behind the tree, in order to give himself as clear a shot as possible at the bandits. This also meant, of course, that the bandits had a direct shot at him.

            “Stiles. Get down!” Derek screamed, sounding more panicked that Stiles had ever heard him.

            Stiles ignored him, focusing on the power humming just below his skin. He didn’t know any spells for killing or hurting, had never thought it necessary to know them. He did know, however, that he could do magic without the accompaniment of spoken words – after all, that was how he had performed all his magic before he’d acquired his spellbook.

            So he focused on the power, and focused on what it was he wanted to do. The magic was building to a fever pitch inside him, and he just…let it out, throwing the power from him and hoping like hell that it would do what he wanted it to.

            When he opened his eyes, all he saw in front of him was Derek. All five bandits, along with their horses, were gone, small patches where the grass had been scorched out the only indication that they’d been there in the first place. Stiles didn’t waste any time before looking over his shoulder to make sure their horses were alright.

            Hengroen and Llamerai were right where they had left them, though their ears were flat back and Stiles could see the whites all around Hengroen’s eyes. All of Camelot’s horses had been trained to keep their heads in battle, though, so they hadn’t bolted.

            When he was sure the horses were alright, Stiles turned back around to face Derek.

            For what felt like an eternity, the two of them just stood there staring at each other. Derek looked shocked and a little scared, but he didn’t immediately start raging at Stiles for the magic. Stiles allowed himself, just for a moment, to imagine that Derek could be alright with it, that he could be lucky enough to live in a world where Derek was his ally and confidant.

            He dismissed the thought quickly, though. Derek’s entire family had been destroyed by a malevolent sorceress, and he had never before indicated any sort of tolerance of magic. There was no chance that it could happen, no chance that this situation could end with anything other than Stiles’s death.

            True, it was only Stiles and Derek out there, and if Stiles really wanted, he was sure he could break away from Derek and flee, go into hiding. He could go back to his village, live with his dad again, forget about his squandered chance at destiny.

            No. That wouldn’t do. For a year, Stiles life had revolved around Derek. Every bit of magic he’d done had been to help Derek, and he refused to run away from their destiny now. Even if this resulted in his death, he could die knowing that he had done his best to protect Derek.

            He shuddered at the thought of the flames he’d surely be subjected to, but stood firm, awaiting Derek’s reaction.       

            Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Derek came to life. He stalked towards Stiles, and snarled “What the _hell_ were you thinking? You could have been killed!”

            That wasn’t exactly the reaction that Stiles had been expecting, but he had always risen to Derek’s challenges and he wasn’t about to stop now. “What, I don’t get a thank you?”

            Derek rolled his eyes and turned away. “You are, without a doubt, the _stupidest -_ ” he broke off with a hiss of pain as he attempted to remove his own gauntlet.

            Stiles was by his side in an instant, no longer caring about himself in the face of Derek’s injury. “What is it?”

            Derek stuck his sword arm out to Stiles without complaint, which caused Stiles a great deal of confusion. Could it be possible that Derek still trusted him?

            No, he decided. Derek just knew that Stiles was the only one who could dress Derek’s wounds right now, and he would save his condemnation for after he was taken care of.

            Stiles pushed up Derek’s sleeve and saw that he had a long cut, starting at about his elbow and slicing through the meat of his upper arm. It wasn’t serious, by any stretch of the imagination, but it certainly looked unpleasant.

            “You can continue your tirade about how stupid I am over near the supplies,” Stiles said firmly. “I need to wrap this up.”

            “I’m not a _child_ , Stiles,” Derek said, but let Stiles lead him anyway.

            Stiles pulled out the length of bandage that Deaton had stuffed into his pack the previous night, and, after using a bit of water from his canteen to rinse out the cut, began to wrap Derek’s arm up.

            To Stiles’s surprise, Derek didn’t pick up the topic they’d been discussing again, choosing instead to sit in stoic, manly silence.

            “Change your mind about me being stupid, then?” Stiles’s traitorous mouth asked.

            Derek merely gave a snort in response.

            “Really, you should be telling me how smart I am,” Stiles continued, finishing up the wrapping. “At least I know that my life is much less valuable than yours.”

            Stiles had barely finished speaking when he felt his back slamming into a tree. There it was, he thought. There, finally, was Derek’s reaction to the magic.

            Though he and Derek were nearly the same height, he felt like Derek was towering above him, pinned, as he was, by Derek’s strong arms and piercing gaze. “Don’t ever say that,” Derek said lowly.

            “Why not?” Stiles asked. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

            Derek pushed, almost impossibly, closer. “Don’t _say_ that.”

            “Is this you admitting you like me?” Stiles asked, confused.

            Derek backed off slightly, dropping his arms back by his sides. “Do you really think I don’t like you?” 

            Stiles didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything.

            Derek pushed up closer to him again, this time without any of the forcefulness from earlier. “Do you think that?” he repeated.

            Stiles looked up to meet Derek’s eyes, all impossible swirling colors, and his breath hitched, because Derek was close enough to his face that Stiles could see each individual follicle of hair on his jaw. “You need to shave,” he joked weakly.

            Derek made a frustrated noise in his throat, growled something that sounded like _Stiles_ , and closed the gap between their lips.

            Stiles stiffened up, because pretty much the last thing that he had expected as a result of his magic reveal was Derek kissing him. But nobody could accuse Stiles of being stupid, or not taking advantage of opportunities. His eyes slid closed, and he brought up a hand to cup Derek’s face, the prickliness of his stubble contrasting with the softness of his lips.

            Derek gave a quiet little groan and nipped at Stiles’s lower lip. Taking the hint, Stiles opened his mouth to allow Derek’s tongue inside, all hot and slick and teasing.

            After a few more moments of their lips and tongues and teeth tangling, Stiles’s curiosity got the better of him, and he pulled away, despite the buzzing in the back of his brain and the throbbing in his dick, to ask “Wait, so does this mean that you’re not mad at me for the magic thing?”

            Derek looked at him in disbelief. “Did you honestly think that I didn’t know you had magic until today?”

            Stiles was struck speechless, something that didn’t happen to him very often. He wracked his brains, trying to understand how this could be possible, and began to feel very stupid when he realized that Derek had, on several occasions, done or said things that hinted at his knowledge of the magic. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, floored.

            Derek raised an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same question. But do you really want to talk about this right now?” he gave Stiles a very obvious once-over and squeezed his hands on Stiles’s hips a little.

            And, no. Stiles most emphatically did _not_ want to talk about this right now. Not when he had everything he had ever wanted right at his fingertips. So, instead of answering Derek, Stiles dove back in for another kiss, clicking his teeth against Derek’s in his enthusiasm.

            Derek gave a little chuckle and eased back slightly, trying to compensate for Stiles and turn their kiss into something that didn’t resemble a battle.

            When their lips slotted perfectly again, it just felt…right, in a way that Stiles didn’t think he had ever felt before. Sure, he’d had a few fumblings in the woods before coming to Camelot, but his crush on Derek was so longstanding, so powerful, that the realization of his desires came with a profound sense of relief.

            In fact, Stiles thought as he pushed himself as close to Derek as was physically possible, he could now afford to admit to himself that what he felt for Derek was more than just a crush.

***

            Much as Stiles (and Derek, if the way he kept stopping what he was doing to paw at Stiles was any indication) would have liked to stay and explore some of the benefits of their mutual attraction, Derek insisted that they had to get back to the castle without delay. Apparently, something about the bandits’ clothing had alerted Derek to the fact that they were likely working under the orders of someone powerful, not just freelance thugs, and Peter needed to be notified about that fact as soon as possible.

            Stiles could see the logic in Derek’s plan, of course, but that didn’t stop him from complaining loudly and frequently as he and Derek re-packed the horses and began to ride back to Camelot.

            “You do realize that your complaining will not actually help us get home faster, right?” Derek asked. In a contrast from earlier, he had pulled Hengroen back so that he was riding beside Stiles and Llamerai, instead of out in front.

            Stiles scoffed. “Do you even _know_ how hard it’s been for me this past year? I have to dress you every single morning. I think I’m entitled to be a little bit sulky that I have to wait.”

            Derek smirked. “Really. How about you tell me a little more about your trouble with dressing me?”

            Stiles groaned and reached out to shove at Derek’s shoulder. Derek didn’t move an inch, of course, because he was made out of solid muscle. Bastard. “I don’t think I need to inflate your ego any more, _your highness_ ,” Stiles said.

            “On the contrary,” Derek replied. “I really think you should.” Suddenly, he kicked Hengroen up into a canter. “Come on then!” he cried over his shoulder at Stiles. “You’re the one who wanted to get home faster!”

            Rolling his eyes and smiling despite himself, Stiles kicked at Llamerai’s sides, getting the reluctant mare into a canter after a few tries. By that time, Derek and Hengroen were far ahead of him, Hengroen’s long, muscular legs covering the ground at an almost impossibly fast pace, but Stiles didn’t mind.

            Derek tended to brood, tended to let his past tragedies and future responsibilities weigh on him until he became brittle and bitter. Those times when he could let go and be himself, race horses just for the hell of it, were rare, and so Stiles cherished them.

            As Llamerai got warmed up and began to close the distance between them, Stiles thought that maybe those moments would be a lot more common, now.

***

            For the second time in as many days, Stiles found himself waiting anxiously in Derek’s chambers while Derek had an audience with Peter. This time was a whole different kind of anxiety, though – rather than worrying about the well-being of the kingdom, Stiles was worried about the fact that he really had very little practical sexual experience, and he had no idea what to expect when Derek came back to the room.

            Would Derek want him to be naked, maybe? Spread out across the bed, waiting for him? Stiles shuddered at the thought of his pale, lanky body on display like that, especially in the face of Derek’s muscles. No, that was certainly out.

            Maybe Derek wouldn’t even like that Stiles was in his room. Maybe he’d see it as an invasion of privacy. Maybe those kisses hadn’t even meant anything, and Derek would never acknowledge them again.

            Stiles could feel his heartbeat speeding up in panic, and he tried to force himself to calm down, taking deep breaths in through his nose. He reminded himself that, while Derek did have a tendency to be a bit of an ass, he was never cruel.

            Besides, when had Stiles ever failed to do exactly what he wanted around Derek? Anyway, if Derek was alright with the magic thing, he would have to be patient enough to work with Stiles’s inexperience.

            Right?

            Stiles’s panicking was cut off by the door to the room opening and Derek striding inside. Stiles opened his mouth to ask him how the meeting had gone, or maybe to make a sarcastic remark, he wasn’t quite sure, but Derek didn’t waste any time in closing the space between them and kissing Stiles again.

            All of Stiles’s worries and fears evaporated with the first touch of Derek’s lips, and he gave himself over to the kiss, wrapping him arms tightly around Derek’s neck.

            Derek broke away for a split second, just enough time to growl “Bed,” before re-attaching their lips and beginning to bodily drag Stiles towards his giant four-poster.

            Stiles went easily, though he had to admit that he was almost as excited about getting to lie on Derek’s comfortable bed as he was about actually having sex with Derek.

            Stiles’s knees hit the side of the bed, and he fell backwards, bouncing a little, though he didn’t get to move very far before Derek was on top of him, pressing every available inch of their bodies together.

            Stiles wriggled a little and moaned into Derek’s mouth. Derek’s response was to grind hip hips down into Stiles’s, pressing their erections right up next to each other.

            Stiles had to pull back from the kiss in order to gasp at the sensation. Derek, seemingly unwilling to disconnect his mouth from Stiles for a single second, began to nip and suck at Stiles’s neck. Stiles knew that this would likely leave bruises, and that it would be embarrassing to try to explain them to everyone the next day, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, even a little bit.

            Instead, he grabbed at where Derek’s tunic was pooling around his hips and began to tug it up, suddenly desperate to get to Derek’s bare skin.

            Derek took the hint and raised himself up enough that Stiles could pull his shirt off. Feeling mischievous, Stiles took advantage of the fact that Derek was momentarily off-balance to flip them over, so that he was lying on Derek’s bare chest.

            Derek gave Stiles a little glare, but Stiles could see the smile playing in the corners of his mouth, threatening to break through, and he lowered his own mouth back to Derek’s, shivering a little when Derek began to ruck his tunic up to run calloused hands over the sensitive skin of his lower back.

            Stiles broke the kiss to pull his own shirt over his head, no longer caring about what his body looked like, and lowered his head to pepper kisses over Derek’s chest. He didn’t really know what he was doing, but Derek seemed to enjoy it nonetheless, if the way he pressed down firmly on Stiles’s lower back and hitched his own hips up was any indication.

            Stiles wasn’t exactly shocked to learn that Derek was quiet in bed. He was quiet most of the time, really – a result of the stoic, princely image he’d always been obligated to present.

            On the contrary, Stiles himself was all moans and sighs and bitten-off gasps, and he was determined to cause Derek to make some sort of noise before the night was over.

            With this goal in mind, he trailed his lips lower, until he was kissing over Derek’s taut abs. He only lingered there for a moment before he was tugging at the waistband of Derek’s breeches, wanting to get them off before he lost his nerve. Derek, obviously following Stiles’s train of thought, lifted his hips to make it easy for Stiles to slip his breeches all the way off.

            Taking advantage of the few seconds it takes to get the pants off of Derek’s legs, Stiles tried to quiet the voice in his head that was screaming at him to not even attempt this, because he would be awful at it, and Derek would never want to sleep with him again. He reassured himself with his memories of the first blowjob he had received, which, despite being rather messy and unskillful, had still felt amazing. He was pretty sure that as long as he didn’t bite Derek or anything, this would be a success.

            He finally released Derek’s pants to the floor, and came up to brace himself on his elbows above Derek’s hips. He looked up, and  saw that Derek was giving him one of his _looks_.

            “What?” Stiles asked.

            “You’d think that after dressing me for a year, you’d be able to undress me a little faster,” Derek answered.

            Stiles pouted at him. “If you’re just going to complain about my efforts…” he jokingly made to raise himself up, but Derek clamped his knees together to hold Stiles firmly in place. “Bossy,” Stiles muttered, before dropping the pretense and finally turning his attention to Derek’s dick.

            He’d seen it before, of course, but he’d never allowed himself to really pay attention. In order to make up for the last year of frustration, he let himself get a good eyeful.

            It was big, of course, because everything about Derek’s physical form was irritatingly perfect. Stiles wrapped his hand around it, a little curiously, and gave it a few strokes, pushing the foreskin back so he could run his fingers lightly around the head.

            Derek’s whole body gave a little shudder, and he gritted out “Stiles,” between his teeth. Stiles smirked to himself, but took the hint, lowering his head to flick his tongue over the path his fingers had just taken.

            Derek’s reaction was instantaneous – his head slammed back into the pillow with enough force that Stiles could actually hear it. Stiles, pleased and more than a little smug about the effect he was having, looked up at Derek through his eyelashes as he sucked the entire head of Derek’s dick into his mouth.

            Derek gave a small hiss of pleasure, which encouraged Stiles to continue. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he relaxed his jaw and sank down as far as he could on Derek’s dick, wrapping his hand around the part he couldn’t fit into his mouth. As he settled into a rhythm – down, up, swirl his tongue around the head, back down – Derek’s little noises got steadily louder and more uninhibited, until Derek was swearing under his breath and pushing Stiles away by the shoulders.

            Stiles, who had been enjoying himself quite a bit, thought about protesting, but changed his mind when he saw how blown Derek’s pupils were.

            In a movement that was much smoother than Stiles’s earlier, Derek flipped them back over, pinning Stiles beneath him again. He leaned down to steal a quick kiss, moaning at the bitter taste of his own precome in Stiles’s mouth, before leaning over the side of his bed and extracting a small vial of oil.

            Catching sight of it, Stiles asked “What, you were planning this?” His voice, rough and wrecked from Derek’s cock, made it difficult to believe he was upset about this, as did the way he spread his legs to allow Derek to settle between them.

            Derek pulled off Stiles’s pants and then spread the oil over his fingers, but paused before reaching for Stiles. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked.

            Stiles considered lying, but knew that Derek would see through him in an instant, so he just swallowed and shook his head.

            Derek held Stiles’s gaze for a moment, reassuring him silently that everything would be alright, before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

            Pushing Stiles’s legs a bit further apart, Derek reached his slick fingers back and traced lightly around the rim of Stiles’s hole.

            Stiles let out a shuddering breath, but nodded when Derek looked up at him. Taking his permission, Derek slowly slid one finger inside him, giving him a moment to adjust before beginning to move it.

            Stiles exhaled again and wiggled curiously back on Derek’s finger. It didn’t hurt as much as he’d been expecting it to, but it was only one finger. He could only hope that the pleasure would outweigh the pain.

            And if it didn’t? Well, he had a high tolerance. He could take it.

            Derek slid in another finger and scissored them gently once, before crooking them just a little. At that, it was Stiles’s turn to slam his head into the pillow and swear loudly, because that felt _amazing_.

            “God. Yes. More of that, please,” he said.

            Derek smirked and obliged him, rubbing firmly over his prostate a few more times before slipping in a third finger, enjoying Stiles’s noises the entire time.     

            It only took a few short moments of this treatment before Stiles was whining deeply in the back of his throat and panting out “Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

            “You think you’re ready, then?” Derek asked, only half joking.

            Stiles glared at him, which was surprisingly effective, considering he was naked and flushed with three of Derek’s fingers inside his ass. He didn’t bother to give a verbal response.

            Derek pulled his fingers out, and Stiles gave a small whine. He didn’t understand how he felt so _empty_ , after going his whole life up until this point without anything inside him.

            Working quickly, Derek spread a large portion of the remainder of the oil over his dick, and settled down so he was holding himself up with his elbows beside Stiles’s head. He reached down to hike Stiles’s legs around his own waist, and positioned himself at Stiles’s entrance. As he leant down to capture Stiles’s lips in a gentle kiss, he pushed himself inside, slowly but steadily, until his hips were flush with Stiles’s ass.

            Stiles didn’t really have the energy to return Derek’s kiss, far too busy focusing on the feeling of Derek inside him. It hurt a little, but not anywhere near as much as he had expected, and after only a few seconds of panting with his mouth wide open, he choked out “Move.”

            Derek obeyed with relief, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, keeping his strokes slow at first. Stiles squirmed around beneath him, trying to find the spot that Derek had hit earlier with his fingers. Seeing Stiles’s desperation, Derek tried out a few different angles, until Stiles gasped out, indicating his success. Keeping to that angle, Derek slowly began to increase the speed of his thrusts, until Stiles was letting out breathless little “uh” noises with each thrust.

            “Faster,” Stiles gasped out, and with that, the last shreds of control holding Derek back evaporated. He began to pound into Stiles, chasing his own orgasm while at the same time making sure to keep the tip of his dick angled at Stiles’s prostate.

            Overwhelmed, Stiles threw one arm over his eyes, unable to look at Derek’s intensely focused face any longer, while the other arm reached down to palm his own dick. He felt like he was actually going to die if he didn’t come soon, so he let out a noise that was perilously close to a whimper when Derek batted his hand away from his dick. That whimper turned into a “yes”, however, when Derek replaced Stiles’s hand with his own, jacking him quickly. Derek could feel his own orgasm building, deep within his stomach, but the stubborn part of him refused to come before Stiles did.

            Stiles was too far gone for words, too far gone, even, for moans, reduced to heavy panting as Derek brought him closer and closer to the edge.

            One final stroke of Derek’s hand, combined with a particularly well-timed thrust, had Stiles crying out, back stiffening and eyes flying open as he came, hard, over Derek’s fist.

            Derek only lasted a few more thrusts before following suit, collapsing on top of Stiles with a deep groan and spilling inside of him.

            Stiles’s mind was blissfully blank, and he felt as though he was floating in the hazy space between sleep and waking. This lasted until Derek got out of the bed, and Stiles was snapped back into reality. What, he wondered, was the etiquette for this situation? Would Derek expect him to leave?

            His questions were answered when Derek returned with a damp towel and wiped down Stiles’s stomach before collapsing heavily back into bed and pulling Stiles into his chest, so Stiles couldn’t leave even if he wanted to.

            Smiling happily, Stiles closed his eyes and leaned back into Derek’s embrace. He could only take a few seconds of silence, though, before he asked “Does that mean I can move my stuff up here, then?”

            “Shut the fuck up, Stiles,” was Derek’s reply, and Stiles, for once, obeyed.  


End file.
